In a Dry Season (37 page)

“Aye,” Stan chirped in. “I remember them now. Just the two of them, weren't there? Him and his wife. Tall, gangly lass, herself.”

“Nay,” said Elsie, “she were never his wife. He weren't right in his head.”

“Who were she, then?”

“I don't know, but she weren't his wife.”

“How do you know?” Banks asked Elsie.

“They didn't act like man and wife. I could tell.”

“Don't be so bloody daft, woman,” Stan said. Then he looked at Banks and rolled his eyes. “She were his wife. Take it from me.”

“What was her name?” Banks asked.

“It's on the tip of my tongue,” Elsie said.

“Blodwyn,” said Stan. “Summat Welsh, anyroad.”

“No, it weren't. Gwynneth, that were it. Gwynneth Shackleton.”

“What did she look like?”

“Ordinary, really, apart from them beautiful eyes of hers,” said Elsie. “Like Stanley said, she were a bit taller than your average lass, and a bit clumsy, you know, the way some big people are. She were nearly as tall as Matthew.”

“How old, would you say?”

“She can't have been that old, but she had a hard-done-by look about her. I don't know how to say it, really. Old before her time. Tired, like.”

“Must've been from looking after her husband. He were an invalid. Battle fatigue. War wound.”

“He weren't her husband.”

Stan turned to face her. “Did you ever see her stepping out with a young man?”

“Come to think on it, no, I don't recall as I did.”

“There you are then. Goes to show.”

“Show what?”

“You'd've thought if she weren't married she'd have had a boyfriend or two, girl like that, wouldn't you? I'll grant you she were no oil painting, but she were well enough shaped where it counts, and she were bonny enough.”

“Did they ever have many visitors?” Banks asked.

“Not as I noticed.” Elsie answered. “But I'm not one of your nose-at-the-window types, you know.”

“How about an attractive young woman with blonde hair?” Annie said, turning to Stanley. “Might have looked like this.” She handed him the copy of Alice Poole's photograph and pointed to Gloria.

“No,” said Stan. “Never seen anyone looked like her. And I think I'd remember.” He winked at Annie. “I'm not that old, tha knows. But that other one's Gwynneth all right.” He pointed to the woman Alice had identified as Gwen Shackleton. “I can't recall as they ever had
any
visitors, come to think on it.”

“Aye, you're right there, Stanley,” she said. “They kept to themselves.”

“What happened after the suicide?” Banks asked.

“She went away.”

“Do you know where?”

“No. She never even said goodbye. One day she were there, the next she were gone. I'll tell you what, though.”

“What?” asked Banks.

A wicked smile twisted her features. “I know who she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her. That Gwynneth Shackleton. That's not her name now, of course, but it's her, right enough. Done right well for herself, she has.”

“Who is she?”

“I've seen her on telly, seen her picture in
Woman's

Own
.”

“Yer barmy, woman,” Stan piped up.

“I'm telling you, Stanley: it's her. Those eyes. The height. The voice. I don't forget things like that. I'm surprised you can't see it for yourself.”

Banks was trying hard to remain patient and beginning to think he was fighting a losing battle. “Mrs Patterson. Elsie,” he said finally. “Do you think you could tell me
who
you think Gwen Shackleton is?”

“It's that woman writes those books, isn't it? Always being interviewed on telly. And she did that documentary about that little church in London, you know, like Alan Bennett did on Westminster Abbey. Used to live just down the road, did Alan Bennett. His dad were a butcher. Any-road, you could see it were her, how tall she were. And those eyes.”

“What books?” Banks asked.

“Them detective books. Always on telly. With that
good-looking whatsisname playing the inspector. Good they are, too. I've had her books out of the library. I must go through ten books a week. It's her, I'm telling you.”

“She's thinking of that Vivian Elmsley woman,” sighed Stan. “Swore the first time she saw her interviewed by that bloke who talks through his nose—”

“Melvyn Bragg.”

“Aye, him. Swore blind it were Gwen Shackleton.”

“You don't agree?” Annie asked.

“Nay, I don't know, lass. I'm not good at faces, not the way our Elsie is. She's always telling me someone's baby looks like his mum or dad but I'm buggered if I can see it. They all look like Winston Churchill to me. Or Edward G. Robinson. There
is
a resemblance, but . . . ” He shook his head. “It's so long ago. People change. And things like that don't happen to people like us, do they, people from places like this? Someone across the street gets famous and writes books that get done on telly and all? I mean, life's not like that, is it? Not here. Not for the likes of us.”

“What about Alan Bennett?” Elsie argued. “And she were well-read. You could tell that about her.”

In the brief silence that followed, Banks heard more music and laughter from across the street.

“You hear what it's like?” Stan said. “Never a moment's peace. Day and night, night and day, bloody racket. We keep our windows shut and curtains closed. You never know what's going to happen next. We had a murder last week. Bloke down the street playing cards with some bloody Gyppos. Vinnie and Derek, our lads, they worry about us. They'd like us to go live in sheltered housing. We might just do it and all. Right now, I'd settle for three squares a day and a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Back to this woman,” said Banks, turning to Elsie. “Gwen Shackleton.”

“Aye?”

“How long did she stay on the estate after the suicide?”

“Oh, not long. I'd say as long as it took to get him buried and get everything sorted out with the authorities.”

“Were the police suspicious about what happened?”

“Police are always suspicious, aren't they?” said Stan.

“It's their job.” He laughed and coughed. “Nay, lad, you ought to know that.”

Banks smiled. “Was Gwen in the house at the time of the suicide?” he asked.

Elsie paused and lowered her head. “That's what they asked us back then,” she said. “I've thought and thought about it to this day, and I still don't know. I
thought
I saw her get back from the shops—that was where she'd been, shopping up Town Street—
before
I heard the bang.” She frowned. “But, you see, I were so close to having our Derek, and I weren't always seeing things right. I could have been wrong.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Yes. But nowt came of it. Or they'd have put her in jail, wouldn't they?”

Now Banks
definitely
wanted to have a look at the Matthew Shackleton file. “We might as well be off,” he said to Annie, then turned to Stan and Elsie. “Thanks very much. You've been a great help.”

“Tell me summat,” said Stan. “I know getting information out of you lot's like prising a penny from a Scotsman's arse, but I'm curious. This Gwen, were she his wife?”

Banks smiled. “His sister. We think.”

Elsie nudged her husband hard in the ribs. He started
coughing. “See, Stanley. I told yer so, yer great lummox.”

Banks insisted they could find their own way out, and soon he and Annie walked gratefully in the fresh air. The people across the street were still enjoying their party, joined now by Kev and his dog, which was running wild across the tiny lawns, scratching on doors and ripping up what weeds had survived summer so far. Another woman, whom Banks assumed to be Colleen, was also there, holding her baby. She was a skinny girl, about seventeen, smiling, no bruises, but with a hard, defeated look about her.

As Banks and Annie neared the end of the street, an empty beer can skittered across the tarmac behind them.

“What do you think about this Vivian Elmsley business?” Annie asked.

“I don't know. I'm surprised that neither Elizabeth nor Alice mentioned it.”

“Maybe they didn't know? Alice said she's got very poor eyesight, and Elizabeth Goodall didn't even know why you were visiting her, she pays so little attention to current affairs.”

“True,” said Banks. “And Ruby Kettering left Hobb's End in
1940
, when Gwen was only about fifteen. Definitely worth looking into.”

“So,” said Annie back in the car. “What next?”

“The local nick. I want to see Matthew Shackleton's file.”

“I thought so. And then?”

“Back to Millgarth.”

“Have we time for a drink and a bite to eat later?”

“Sorry. I've got a date.”

She thumped him playfully. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. With a detective inspector. A
male
detective
inspector called Ken Blackstone. You met him briefly. He gave us the address.”

“I remember him. The snappy dresser. Cute.” If Annie were disappointed, she didn't show it. Banks explained his tenuous friendship with Ken and how he was in a mood for building bridges. Things seemed to be coming together for him—the cottage, an active investigation, Annie—and he realized that he had been neglecting his friends for too long.

“I see.” Annie said. “A boys' night out, then?”

“I suppose so.”

She laughed. “I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall at
that
one.”

Billy Joe was confined to base for a few weeks. They said his punishment would have been far more severe had not all the witnesses, even Seth's friends, attested that he didn't start the fight. Seth was fine, too. At first, I thought Billy Joe had broken the glass in his face, but it had simply fallen off the edge of the table when he had tried to put it back there before preparing to defend himself. All Billy Joe had done was punch Seth in the nose, and everyone agreed it was well deserved.

Gloria never said as much, but I think the incident put her off Billy Joe. She hated violence. Some girls like being fought over. I'll never forget the primal blood-lust in Cynthia Garmen's eyes when two soldiers fought over her favours at one of the Harkside dances. She didn't care who was hitting whom as long as someone was getting hit and blood was flowing. But Gloria wasn't like that. Violence upset her.

It was while Billy Joe was confined to base that we first met Brad and Charlie.

We were walking out of the Lyceum. It was a miserable February night in 1944, not snowing, but freezing cold, with icicles hanging from the cinema's eaves. We hadn't been out for a few days and Gloria was getting depressed with the cold and the hard working conditions at the farm. She needed cheering up.

We had been to see Bette Davis, Paul Henreid and Claude Rains in
Now, Voyager
, and we were both humming the theme song as we put our coats back on in the foyer before going out into the bitter cold evening.

Before Gloria could dig out her own cigarettes, a young man in a fleece-lined leather jacket walked over, put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, then handed one to her. It was the same thing they had done in the film. We doubled over laughing.

“Brad,” said the young man. “Brad Sikorski. And this is my pal Charlie Markleson.”

Gloria did a little mock curtsey. “Charmed to meet you, I'm sure.”

“We're with the 448th? Over at Rowan Woods?” Though they were statements, they sounded like questions. I had noticed this before with both Americans and Canadians. “I don't mean to be forward,” said Brad, “but would you ladies care to honour us by joining us for a drink?”

We exchanged glances. I could tell Gloria wanted to go. Brad was tall and handsome, with a twinkle in his eye and a little Clark Gable moustache. I looked at Charlie, who was probably destined to be my companion for the evening, and I had to admit I quite liked what I saw. About the same age as Brad, he had intelligent eyes, if a little puppy-dog, and a rather pale, thin face. His nose was too big, and it had a bump in the middle, but then mine was nothing to write home about, either. He also seemed reserved and serious. All in all, he'd do. At least for a drink.

We walked across to the Black Swan. The village green was deserted and the ice crackled under our feet. Icicles hung from the branches and twigs of the chestnut trees and frost covered the bark. If it hadn't been so cold, I could have imagined they were blossoms in May. Behind us, the illuminated sign over the Lyceum went off. Even in the blackout, cinemas, shops and a few other establishments were allowed a small measure of light, unless the air-raid siren went off. Ahead, St Jude's was partially lit, and close by stood the Black Swan, with its familiar timber and whitewash façade and sagging roof. We could hear the sounds of talking and laughter from inside, but heavy blackout curtains covered the mullioned windows.